Page 78 of Pucking Strong

“Yeah, let’s see it, Teddy!”

Tucking the gift bag awkwardly under one arm, I pull out the tissue paper, dropping it to the ground. My fingers brush over the soft plush of the WAG jacket, and it sends a literal chill up my arm. Of all the things I’ve already done in this fake marriage—signing the temporary custody papers, meeting his parents, wearing the damn ring—nowthisis a bridge too fucking far?

“Try. It. On! Try. It. On!” The ladies all start to chant as I slowly pull the WAG jacket free of the last of the tissue paper.

Poppy takes the gift bag, letting me hold the jacket with both hands. It’s a black, plush bomber-style jacket. They used actual jersey numbers, I think, sewing them onto the black material, then bedazzling them with matching rhinestones. Henrik’s number seventeen flashes on both arms. The front left chest is embroidered with “Dr. O’Connor.” The collar and cuffs are striped and fitted, like something on an old high school letterman jacket.

Honestly, this jacket is fucking awesome. I flip it around, and my breath catches. Henrik’s huge number seventeen covers the back too. And across the shoulders in sparkly block letters it reads, “TEDRIK.”

“Don’t you just love it?” says Poppy, brushing her fingers over the jewels.

God fucking damn it. Idolove it.

“What’s Tedrik?” I ask, feeling breathless.

“It’s your ship name,” she explains. “Some of the names work better for it than others. Like Cake and Calilmari over there,” she adds, pointing at Caleb and Mars.

I raise a brow. “Cake?”

“Caleb and Jake,” Caleb replies, hands tucked in the pockets of his sparkly WAG jacket.

Calilmari explains itself. Though, as Mars turned, I saw that the back of his jacket reads, “NO EXIT” above Jake’s number forty-two.

“Put it on,” someone shouts again.

“Fashion show!”

“Show it off, Doctor O’Connor!”

I know this won’t stop until I put the damn jacket on. Whatever, I’m already wearing a wedding ring. I slip my arm into the sleeve, tugging on the jacket. I snake in my other arm and shrug it up my shoulders. It’s a perfect fit.

“Let’s see it, WAGs!”

“Yeah, Kelsey!”

“Lookin’ good, Astrid!”

Camera flashes make me blink as several of the women hold up their phones, taking pictures of us. Astrid puts an arm around me, and all I can do is plaster on a smile. The music is cranked louder, and the crowd starts to disperse over to the bar.

“Come on,” says Astrid, linking her arm in with mine.

I let her lead me over to the bar, where some drink that is teal and garnished with a fruit skewer gets placed in my hand. Everyone is talking all at once. People hug me, offering congratulations. One tipsy girl asks me what it took to turn Henrik gay. She’s quickly pulled away by a friend. Then Heather Walsh is behind me, sipping a margarita. “Did you pick Karlsson’s goal song yet?”

“What?”

“His goal song. It’s a Rays tradition.”

“I’m not familiar.” I take a sip of what I think is a blue hurricane. Fuck, it’s way too sweet.

Bobby Tremblay’s wife, Janna, steps in behind her. “For the first home game of the season, the WAGs get to pick the goal song for their player,” she explains. “If your guy scores and your song plays, you earn a thousand bucks too.”

Well, shit. Doctor O’Connor could use a thousand dollars. I glance between them, taking another sip of my shitty cocktail. “Isn’t there kind of an unfair advantage for the forwards? Don’t they have a better chance at scoring?”

Janna laughs. Like Henrik, her guy, Tremors, is a forward. “That’s kind of the point. If girls like Heather wanted to win, they should have picked a player who knows how to score. Right, Teddy?” She winks at me.

Oh god.

Heather just rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Remind me, Jan. Is Tremors a first-line guy?”

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